Medical Cabinet
by kkolmakov
Summary: Bits and pieces and herky-jerky stuff involving Dr. John Thorington and Wren Leary from the modern AU installment of "Touch the Nerve", "Strike the Cord" and "Cut Through the Heart". Literally, a pile of whatever goes. One-shots and drabbles *No Infringement Intended*
1. Chapter 1

"I love you!"

"I know, but I love you more!"

"That's an absolutely ridiculous idea, of course I love you more!"

"It's ridiculous, I love you more than it is possible to love another person, which means I love you more!"

"I love you more than impossible, so see? I love you more!"

xxx

"John, I'm going to puke!"

"Do you want some peppermint tea? Should help!"

"It's not the morning sickness, you clot! It's Thea bloody cooing with Jimmy the Smoocher on Skype!"

"I though it's Jimmy the Wanker."

"I think I liked him more when he was indeed a wanker."

"Peppermint tea?"

"Yes, please."

"Here. I love you."

"Now I'm definitely going to barf..."


	2. Chapter 2

"Mrs. Thorington, this is Ms. Edna, your sons' teacher," you internally groan. What is it this time?

"Yes, Ms. Edna, how can I help you?" You drop your head on your desk. The lab flasks in front of your give out a sad clank. Yes, my dearies, your sympathy is well deserved.

"Well, we are having a bit of a situation in here," Ms. Edna's voice is cautious. "Thomas has locked himself in a supply closet." Bugger.

"I am sorry to hear that," pronouncing apologies for your sons is sort of an automatic response for you by now.

"Well, you see Mrs. Thorington, the closet doesn't have a lock..." You gently bang your head to the table.

"And where's Dane?" "That's another um… problem. We had to put him into the director's office. There was a row..." You straighten up in shock. "Dane was in a fight?" What in the name of all deities could make Dane fight?

"Of course not!" Ms. Edna chuckles against her own will. That indeed would be a sign of an impending apocalypse. "Two girls had a fight over his attention. There was blood shed..." You bite into your bottom lip. That sounds more like your younger son. Well, technically younger, there were three minutes difference between him and Thomas.

"And Oliver?"

"Oliver is fine, he is happily snacking at the moment." There is warmth in her tone. Noone can resist Oliver's sunny smile and the blue eyes he inherited from his father.

"So, Ms. Edna, what is to be done about Thomas?"

"Well, we are in the middle of negotiations with him. You have to understand me right, Mrs. Thorington, we are not in any way blaming him. He obviously had good reasons for it, probably tried to protect other children from entering the closet, we just had a safety lesson and explained them that there are a lot of dangerous materials there, so I assume..." Bloody hero, always taking care of his subjects! You think of a regal posture of your oldest son. Well, he was only three minutes ahead of Dane and nine minutes ahead of Oliver, but still, bloody heir to the throne of Thorington line."We are just informing you of the incident," Ms. Edna keeps on droning into your ear, "And again we suggest you find some sort of extracurricular activities for him, such an astonishing engineering talent in a five year old… We don't even know how he managed to assemble a deadbolt, there was absolutely nothing to use for him in the closet…" You close your eyes.

"Thank you for your suggestion, Ms. Edna, we did sign him up for a science club, but as you can understand he is rather bored there… And they do not want to accept him to a higher level, until he passes the first. And the discussion of colours and shapes irritates him."

Ms. Edna chuckle, "We are familiar with the attitude, Mrs. Thorington. And the glare." Bloody Thorington!

You sigh, "Do you need me to come, Ms. Edna? I can escape the lab for a couple hours."

"Probably not, our science teacher is here, and she is talking him through the disassembly of the lock. I'll keep you posted, Mrs. Thorington."

"Thank you. Have a great day!"

She chuckles, "You too."

You hang up and groan. And stare at the pregnancy test again. Oh poop!


	3. Chapter 3

You are trying on dress number twenty seven. And no, you are not taking a piss! Literally twenty six dresses have been carried out of the mysterious depth of the most expensive wedding salon in the city by a man reminiscent both of the Queen and a dead fish, ironically he is carrying them bridal style, while a no less posh and obnoxious lady wheels out a dummy in exactly the same dress so you can see it "with the secondary vision", what is it even, for fuck's sake? Then you are bloody stuffed in it, they spend ten minutes fussing around you and touching you, which makes you feel violated in a whole range of new ways, then they tsk couple times reproachfully, look at your hair askew in disdain, put some weird arrangements of wire and live flowers in them, and then "the reveal!", at which point you are pretty much ready to puke. "The reveal!" lost its charm on the second dress, and you feel like just agreeing on anything. But then you bite into your bottom lip and stand your ground. Mostly out of revenge to the two women sitting on a soft sofa enjoying their champagne.

Ghost white, baby powder, ivory, floral white, cream, old lace, linen antique white, vanilla, bone, Navajo white, and even ecru… Princess, ball gown skirt, empire waist, basque waist, sheath, mermaid, also known as trumpet, duchess satin and taffeta with a scoop neckline, vintage, "a bodice with a bit of structure in it", do they mean you have no tits? Because you really don't. Strapless, halter, and even flamenco, "just a tinge of flare for you, dearie", "smooth lines," "sexy twist", "elegantly underlining your neck", and of course we haven't started on the bloody fabric yet…

Deadre and Thea exchange remarks with nauseatingly sweet smiles that show everyone in this palace of torture how much they hate each other. Thea is wearing her skankiest, chaviest dress, Deadre is clad in Chanel. You want to scream. Dress twenty seven is gorgeous, reminiscent of Grace Kelly's gown, and no, you have no bloody idea, but they feel they have to inform you, with specs of real gold in the taffeta, pale pink in colour, covered by cream-colored Alençon lace, designed as a "fitted bodice with high rounded collar and a flared skirt," and you think that no man is worth all that.

And then you take a deep breath in and close your eyes. John, you will think of John. You let your imagine roam freely and immediately blush. Oh, this morning was fun… "Oh, lovely blush, my darling! We have to take it into consideration when choosing the outer shell for your gown!" The Dead Fish bloke rejoices, and that is your limit.

You jump off the podium and run up to your escort. Should you say your prisoners? "I am done for today, that is obviously not working. They all are lovely, but I really..." "Wren, my darling! You are just a bit overwhelmed," Deadre's calm voice is like honey and snake venom, "perhaps we should have some tea, and then we can continue. Arnold?" She beckons your executor with slight twitch of her elegant fingers, and you throw Thea a panicked look. The Dead Fish is nearby right away, pretending that he came to talk instead of keeping his eyes on the "peau de soie and lace masterpiece." "Of course, of course, tea! We have lovely coconut and toffee macaroons and white chocolate truffles." Do they think you are a toddler to be tempted by sweets and what the actual fuck, even food looks like a blushing bride here? Which you are not! This morning you were shagged on a mahogany desk by your future husband, in his office, from behind, mewling and begging for more? There might have been some occasional spanking there too. Should you be wearing white at all? You don't think so!

Thea stretches her hand to you. There is a flute in it. "Champagne?" And then you make the best decision in your life. "Don't mind if I do," you take the glass and topple it over into yourself. The bubbly tangy drink runs down your throat, and you breathe out. "I think I need a moment." You go back to the fitting room, take off the dress, shimmy into your denim and tee again, and yes, it does say "Come to the nerd site. We have Pi" on it. John thought it was hilarious. And its collar might be a bit stretched. Damn his grabby hands! Or bless them! The dextrosity of a surgeon, yum!

By the time you step out of the fitting room, the rocket of your consciousness has passed the tandem stage, and you have been propelled into the sparkly bliss with the explosive charge of alcohol in your blood. Your head is set proudly, shoulders square, and you pin the Dead Fish to the floor with most surely the most self-assured stare he has ever been on the receiving end of.

"I want a trousers suit, with a tuxedo jacket on top, long, to the mid shin, silky, mandarin collar tuxedo shirt underneath, black buttons, strappy sandals. John adores my toes! Have to remove them out of his mouth all the time." Deadre chokes on her champagne. Thea jumps on her feet and cheers. The Dead Fish looks blanched, and you smile widely and smugly. "And I will have those macaroons now."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: For ****Neewa****! I remembered you wanted the prompt of "Love in an Elevator" by Aerosmith, since RA mentioned in an interview that that would be his drunk karaoke choice after a few shots of Jameson (my drink of choice btw, can this man be more perfect? :D) Seriously, watch the video on Youtube for visual reference, it's so worth it, and I had fun with the lyrics in the text as well :D My brain went "Why the hell not?" and here is the result :D**

There are many things Cosmo will tell you you need to achieve to ensure stable, meaningful relationships with a bloke, especially if he is significantly older, disgustingly talented and scarily rich, a genius of neurosurgery, looks so fit that most women would give ten years of their life to shag him right there, right now, and you are… well, you are you. But one thing Cosmo will tell you for sure. Befriend the mates.

You don't read Cosmo, except skimming through it in a queue in a grocery shop. And once you did a quiz with Thea, but you were very drunk. Meaning you had a glass of wine, but for you it's like drinking a pool of vodka martini. According to the results of the quiz, you turned out frigid and really in need to work on your bedroom skills. Thea laughed for half an hour. She once walked on you two in your room, you thought she was away for all weekend, she smiled and turned away, way too slow to your taste, and left the bedroom. You can swear you heard her applauding from another room.

But back to the mates. The best buddy of your future husband, and yes, you did agree to marry him, you are that bloody stupid, is Graham Dwalinson, the King of Gynecology of this hemisphere, the man so scarily looking that fannies heal themselves like Wolverine just so that they don't have to be examined by him. He is massive, his head is shaved, there are scary shit tattoos on his arms and shoulders, he looks like a fierce viking and a biker at the same time, and you two are the best of mates. He calls you "Petroica", which you consider the most hilarious thing in the word. It is the Latin name of the flame robin, and he would rather die than confess but he is a fanatic bird watcher. You often entertain yourself with a fantasy of Dr. Dwalinson in full army camouflage sitting his arse in cold swamp water waiting for a Goldfinch.

You became friends when he was patching up your cervix, when it rebelled and decided to kill you, as it turned out you had endometriosis for years and didn't know about it. Since somebody, according to him, "finally pulled a stick out of John's arse and smacked him to the head with it," you two bonded and have some brew from time to time in your favourite pub. Well, you have lemon water, but their clamfish is wicked.

You are swirling on an office chair, waiting for the lab centrifuge to stop. He knocks at the door and comes in. "Howdey, Dr. Dwalinson!" You are in an especially cheery mood today. "Hey, Petroica! I only have a jiffy, and I have a treat for you." You really hope it is pastry. He pulls out his mobile out of the pocket of his lab coat.

The video, and you quickly guess it is from the stag night from last week, is shaky, there is a lot of loud yelling and laughter at the background, and then the most magnificent picture you have seen in your life is presented to your eyes. Your future husband, Dr. John Crispin Thorington, the Sun and the Moon of contemporary neurosurgery, in a disarrayed suit and askew tie, his mane loose on his shoulders, stumbles on the karaoke stage. He is so wobbly that you can see someone dashing to support him. The voice of his younger nephew Kilian can be heard at the background. "Should we get him a stool?" John proudly gestures, as he thinks, expressing nonchalance, but it looks more like he is trying to shoo away an annoying fly.

Someone pushes the microphone into his hand, and you bite into your bottom lip in anticipation. He has amazing voice, low, velvet, orgasmic, he might even possess the absolute pitch, but that is not one of those nights. To get that bladdered he needs to drink couple bottles of his favourite Jameson in a row, and judging by the flushed cheeks and uncoordinated movements, there are at least three coursing his blood.

You knew it was going to be spectacular but his first full lung capacity "Yuh!" almost throws you off your desk chair. Dwalinson is chuckling near you, and with wide open eyes you watch the proper, cantankerous, poised Dr. Thorington giving his best impersonation of Steve Tyler, while the club joins in with "Wooo yeah!" in the appropriate spots. He even pops the button on his fancy jacket and it flies open in the exact replica of Tyler baring his chest in the music video. The hair shake, the thrust of hips, you are only grateful he is not rogering the stage like Tyler! And hell yes, his throaty yelling "going down" and lifting his brow does funny things to your nether regions.

The two of you are roaring with laughter when the door opens, and your bestie and your appointed father-of-the-bride Lan saunters in the lab. He joins the uproar, he was there too, and then does the best impersonation of Steve Tyler's walk from the end of that music video you have ever seen!

You can't shake the song out of your head for days. John is livid, and every time you start humming he jumps on his feet and leaves the room. By the end of the second day he switches politics and start pulling off your clothes to shut you up. He is going down, and you hit the ground! Woo yeah!


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: It feels like MedCab is turning into a Word a Day for Twrennie (as in Dr. T and Wrennie, thank you ****RagdollPrincess ****for yet another brill abbreviation:). This John/Wren seem to be the ones on my mind these days, and I got inspired by the Word of the Day:**

**Fissiparous, **_**adjective**_

_**tending to break up into parts.**_

_7:09 p.m._

You are sitting on his bed, absorbed into an article on how maternal immune activation alters the fetal brain development through interleukin-6, and chewing on an apple, when his voice shakes you out of your concentration. "Where is the cursed tie?" You lift your eyes and see him moving in his walk-in closet. The door is half-open, and you see a white sleeve of his shirt swooping back and forth. The closet is the size of Switzerland, which tells a lot about his taste in clothes, plus you remember how he didn't manage to find a single bloody shelf for you there, his perfect system not to be altered, and you honestly get so miffed that you can't remember why you even agreed to marry a man so self-absorbed and narcissistic.

He steps out of the closet, fixing the knot on his black tie, black three piece suit, magnificent hair in a ponytail, and you remember why. Your mouth goes dry, and you squeeze your knees together. You play nonchalance and give him a sceptical lifted brow, "I didn't realize you lament your loss of freedom so much that you feel the need to treat your stag party as funeral." He gives you his own sceptical brow. Let's face, it's much more impressive.

"Which one of us had a meltdown this morning at the rehearsal and was sobbing at the back room of the church, hiccuping and mumbling that they can't go through with this torturous nightmare?"

"These are not my words!"

"Right, your exact words were 'never in my bloody life, sod it all', darling," he turns his back to you and surveys his suit in the full length mirror.

"I hope you didn't take it personally," you do feel awful about the incident, but it honestly has nothing to do with him and has everything to do with more than seven hundred wedding guests you had to approve and fourteen cakes you had to sample in the last week.

"Why would I, kiddo?" He still sounds peevish about it, and you know that is not the mood one should have on his stag night. You jump off the bed and stalk your victim. At the very last moment he notices your approaching in the mirror and swirls around. The buttons on you PJ top are already open, and how can he say 'no'?

_8:47 p.m._

You slide off him, and he sits up. "I think I need another suit," the jacket and the waistcoat are open, the shirt is missing buttons, you need the access to the chest asap, the fly is unzipped, he is missing one shoe. Strangely enough the tie is still around his neck. You hum and crawl towards the pillows. You slip under the comforter, and he looks at you with longing in his eyes. "Do you think they can have a stag night without me? You look so cozy there." He seems to be seriously considering it, and you shoo him.

"Get changed and get out! Booze, lap dancing and other dalliances are waiting for you," you yawn, and he groans and goes back to his closet. In a few minutes he appears in a seemingly identical suit, but you are certain if you asked, he would lecture you on higher armhole and something rather pleats. You never do. No need to stroke his already inflated ego. He looks delectable, and that's more than enough.

He comes to you and leans to kiss you. Your eyes are already closing, and you hear him murmur into your ear, "I love you."

You wish you could answer, but all you can manage is "Too..." and then it is dark.

_6:13 a.m._

You are woken up by hysterical giggling and a sound of something hard bumping into a door frame. "Careful, you pillock! That is the head of a world renown surgeon!"

Giggling intensifies, and another person whispers in loud hissing voice, "He won't be fixing anyone's noggins if we bash his brain out tonight."

"Shut your gob, if you wake up Wren, we are all dead men!"

You flip the switch up and enjoy the view of your appointed father-of-the bride, Orlando Theodore Elliot William Thrundon, white tuxedo shirt, no jacket, and your future nephew by marriage and short time boyfriend Killian Durinson, supporting a slumping body of your future husband. The two freeze with facial expressions of a bunny in the lights of an approaching car, your fiance does not even twitch.

"He is drunk," Kilian blurts out, and you lift a brow silently, "Decide to tell you in advance. Sloshed, bladdered, arseholed, and rat arsed."

"I get the hint, Killian, thank you."

"Not our fault, it was all Graham." You shift your cold stare onto Lan.

"It is true, Dwalinson is scary like shite, but still John fought it till the last drop of his blood. But then they ran out of Jameson, and all that tequila over the jemmies..." He shakes his head. You open the door to the bedroom, and they drag him in.

"He is so bloody heavy!" He is taller than both of them, and at least twice as wide, what did they expect? They drop their precious cargo face down into the sheets, and Lan gives him a look over.

"Would you like us to help you to move him to the pillows?" John's legs are hanging off the edge of the bed.

"I'll manage, go home."

You push them both out of the flat, Lan throwing last longing look at John's spread body. "Are you certain you don't need my help to undress him?" Killian makes a disgusted noise.

"Scram, perv, don't even dare fantasizing about this piece of arse." Killian has a pained face.

Lan lifts his hands in a mock surrender, "Only kidding!" They tumble out to the hall, and you blow them both a kiss. They giggle again, and the door closes behind them.

You return to the bedroom and survey the field of work in front of you. You kneel near him on the bed and try to roll him over to reach the button on the suit. It is no use, he is like a bloody bear. A very floppy bear to that matter. "John, I need you on the back." He mumbles something and doesn't even stir.

You slide your hand under his stomach and curl up your fingers. Never fails, he is extremely ticklish. He immediately rolls away from you, and not only on his back but also towards the pillows. Success!

You straddle him and start unbuttoning his clothes. A goofy drunk smile spreads on his face. One hot palm lies on your buttock, and he gives it a weak squeeze. "Sweet…" You are working on the tiny buttons of his shirt. "Almost as good… But hers is better..."

Your fingers freeze, and you lean to his face. "Whose bum are we talking about here?"

The blue eyes suddenly fly open, and he is staring at you. Then he jerks his hand away from your arse. "Sorry… I can't…" He violently shakes his head, which would look hilarious, if you were not worried that he might vomit from shaking his noggin. "I have a wife..." Who does he think is undressing him?

He promptly falls asleep, and you are studying his face. Yep, completely bladdered. Now that he is asleep, he is easier to manhandle. You roll, and push, and pull, and finally all that is left on him is pants. You roll him under the comforter and finally settle near him. He is mumbling something in his sleep and makes funny twitching movements with his long nose.

You close your eyes and are almost asleep, when his absolutely clear voice makes you jump up, "Do you think it's a good idea?" You stare at his open unfocused eyes. He is frowning.

"What?"

"The wedding. Do you think it's a good idea?"

"And what do you think?" You ask carefully.

"I think you were right, and she's going to leg it before the church. I shouldn't have pressured her." He is obviously not talking to you.

You pat his shoulder, "She won't. She loves you and will marry you." He gives you a wide idiotic smile and goes back to sleep. You chuckle, and he pulls you into him, envelops around you and buries his nose in your neck.

You sigh in relief, you still have a couple hours of sleep, when you realize that the pressure of his arms around you is increasingly crushing your ribs. Bloody boa constrictor! He is also nuzzling your neck, and once his lips are pressed to your ear, you realize what he is doing. Let's face, no way in hell he can get it up in this condition. You start making shushing noises and scratch his scalp. He purrs, and the grip on you loosens.

Your heads are on the same pillow, and he looks into your eyes, "I think I should marry you..." His eyebrows cock in a funny way, forming a comical sad angle, raised in the middle, puppy eyes, sort of pleading and pitiful.

"You are, you barmy muppet," you rub his ears with the tips of your fingers, "We are getting married in less than a month."

"Are we?" He is frowning.

"Uh-huh," you quickly kiss his lips, "And I promise you I'm going to show up."

"Do you swear?" What are you two, twelve?

"Yes, I swear, now go to sleep." He pulls you into his and wraps his arms around your middle again. Let's face it, by now you are used to sleeping feeling like a fizzy drink in a can under pressure.

"I asked them for no redhead lap dancers, that would just be wrong..." And very proud of himself he falls asleep. You are lying under the comforter, pressed into his scorching wide body, and smile. What a barmpot! Adorable lovable barmpot!


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Just a little something :) Weirdly enough, I got inspired by Pierce Brosnan's outfit in "Mamma Mia!" yesterday. I do love myself a silver fox, let's face it! Purrrr :)**

You two are walking slowly through the narrow stone-paved paths in the hotel garden. The sun is setting, but the air is still warm, though the fragrance of the flowers that comes in the dark is already streaming through the air. You know you are being unfair, but you just can't snap out of it. He is giving you a sideways glance. Bugger, bugger, bugger, he knows…

"Wren, before we go to dinner, let's talk." You sign. "Wren, what's wrong?" He stops and gently pulls you to turn to look at him. You are staring at the straps of your fancy sandals. They are nice, velvet ribbons around your ankles, Thea helped you buy them, the nail varnish is good too, the pink dots on purple… "Wren?" Oh, right, you are supposed to be sustaining a conversation.

"Um? Yeah?" "What's wrong? You are quiet, didn't want to have sex, and your shawl is outside out," he picks up its edge with his finger. You flip it over and stare on his shoes now.

"I've been thinking..." You are chewing on your lip. "Always dangerous..." He is trying to joke, but it really isn't working. Oh, sod it… "What happens if I get offered that position in Tokyo?" He tilts his head. God, you hate this face of his, all posh and condescending! Oh poor Wrennie, so insecure! Tosser!

"Wrennie, what brought this up?" Lovely, let's change the topic of the conversation, typical Thorington move. "If I decide to take it, I'll be in Tokyo all the time, and you are opening this wing in the hospital..." "And?.." "And we will see each other very rarely. What do you think about it?" "What do you want from me, Wren? Do you want me to tell you what to do with your life? You never seemed to like it when I did that." His eyes are gleaming with impish smile, but the jaw is already tense.

You start pacing around him, and his brows are hiking. "Of course I don't need you to tell me how to run my life. What are you, my father?" "No, that would be sick," his voice is velvet, and he is obviously enjoying the next phrase, "I am your husband." You make an innocent face, you can't pass this opportunity either. "Oh? Since when?" He pulls you closer. "Since last week," he is murmuring knowing exactly what this purring does to you, and lowers his face. But you are not quite OK today, and you twist out of his hands.

"Would you go to Japan with me, if I got the position?" He sighs, "Wren, darling, we both know…" "Oh, don't give me all this reasonable rubbish, give me a bloody direct answer." "No, Wren, I would not go to Tokyo with you, as you just said, I have the wing, and I agreed to teach next year, as you undoubtedly remember too..."

You grab handfuls of your hair and hear couple pins clanking on the stone under your feet. Bloody hair, bloody Egypt, bloody sea air, such an aggro! You jerk the shawl off your shoulders and start crumpling in your hands. "What in the name of Lord Almighty are you doing?" His tone is already slightly irritated. "It is scratchy, why did I even?.." You snap and throw it on the ground. And then you feel worse because now you are ashamed of your outburst.

You press the heels of your hands to your eyes and sniff loudly. "Wren, it is really hard sometimes to understand your moods," he is clenching his jaw. And you sniff again. "Well, don't then. Just ignore me until I'm reasonable again." "I can't ignore you on our honeymoon," he is trying to elevate the mood, but he sounds annoyed, and you feel tears coming up. Bollocks… You bodged it up.

"Wrennie..." Oh the condescending tone again! You step away from him and lift your hand to stop him from approaching. "Just give a mo, alright?" You take a deep breath in, but it is not helping. Oh great, now you are sobbing. "Wren, you honestly should..."

"I am being mental, I know, but I wanted you to say that I can't go, because you don't want to be home without me!" You are blurting it into his face, and he looks at you, his eyes cold and cautious. Oh, we've been through this, John. Emotional arguing is the worst for the two of you. You press your hands into your face. "Oh bugger, I am sorry, I'm being barmy..."

"Wren, you don't need a middle aged man to tell you how to live your life, I am your husband, not your master… I can only hope you won't go and won't leave me. I am old, Wren, you should appreciate every day left in me," you peek at him through your fingers. The blue eyes are laughing, but there is this small tense smile on his lips. You know it well, it's John Thorington feeling insecure smile, somewhere so deep that no one knows that it is there, but you are his wife.

You jump on him and hang on his neck. He envelops you in his strong massive arms, and presses his face into your neck. "I am sorry, I am being mental…" He kisses the crown of your head, "Help yourself, kiddo. Till the death do us part and so on." You chuckle into his chest. You nuzzle him through the white shirt. Oh, the chest… You slide your hands under the grey linen jacket and around his waist. He is warm and feels like home.

You press your forehead to his sternum. "I am not going to Tokyo, I'm staying in the lab..." "Good," he presses his bearded cheek to the top of your head. "I am not going to Tokyo because I'm pregnant..." He hums, and then his whole body freezes. So you were right, men do not actually listen, they just agree with whatever we say, and when the meaning settles…

"What?" He pushes you away and is holding you on his stretched arm's length. You are giving him a shy smile. His eyes are roaming your face. Is he honestly suspecting you in taking a piss? Even your sense of humour isn't that perverted. "What?" Really, John, nothing more eloquent? "How? When? Oh god!" He pulls you in a crushing hug, and he seems to be shaking.

"John, you are strangling me..." He jumps away from you. The blue eyes are brilliant, and you think you see tears there. "Bloody hell, Wrennie, a baby!" You laugh shakily, and he is laughing too. He cups your face, and the two of you are kissing desperately for a while. And then he guffaws again. "So that wasn't allergy to shrimp?" You shake your head and press your cheek to his chest. You love the strong even beating of his heart.

"How far along?" "Remember the time in the car..." "Oh god," he is chuckling, "why couldn't we have conceived our child in some romantic circumstances? Now it will forever be that hurried shag with your dress hiked up around your tits..." "And you almost gave me a black eye..." He is stroking your back. "You didn't complain at the time." "Well, you do know where to put your surgeon's fingers, I'll give you that..."

You are silent for a bit. "How are you feeling, Wren?" You breathe in his Epice Marine by Hermes mixed with the spicy fresh smell of his skin, warmed by the Egyptian sun, and you smile. "I am starving." He chuckles. You slightly claw at his shirt covered back under his jacket. "And I am randy. We should have shagged before dinner, you were right." He is guffawing and then catches your mouth. "Room service, Mrs. Thorington?"


	7. Chapter 7

Years would pass, but people of the land of white walls and beeping machines, also known as the best medical center and hospital in the country, would remember that day. Two events that transpired in a swift sequence were described hundreds of times, and when the story was retold, more and more ostentatious details were added to it.

The first happened at quarter to ten in the morning, when the staff of the hospital saw something that none of them could imagine even in a state of drunk giddiness. Like a large terrifying mountain lion, Dr. John Crispin Thorington was seen rushing through the corridors, swirling his wide strong body and trying to pull his arms out of the sleeves of his black cashmere coat, his blue scarf flailing in the air. He was running so fast that some saw just a blur. At some point in a giant leap, some stating three foot high, but that seems to be an exaggeration, he jumped over a machine two nurses were pushing across his path.

Some also state that they heard him swearing and muttering, but that seems to be completely impossible. No one has ever seen the King, as he was called, behind his back obviously, to lose his composure thusly, and especially no one has ever heard him succumb to emotions enough to use profanities. Nonetheless, a nurse from the gynecological ward swears on her tits that she heard him snarling through his even, white teeth, "She is fucking going to kill me!" The truth will never be found, as enticing as this story sounds.

The second event seems to be even less probable, but this time many of the personnel bore witness to Dr. Thorington stepping out of the ultrasound room, pale and trembling, his blue eyes widened, a mobile in his shaking hand. After the tone he was heard to rasp into the phone, "Dwalinson, get your arse right here..." The mobile fell out of his hand on the floor, the booming voice of the world renown gynecologist Dr. Graham Dwalinson still heard in it. The King caught an arm of a nurse rushing by and pronounced, and the nurse would many times after describe the mad gleam in Thorington's eyes, "Do you have a fag?" The nurse didn't and regrets it till the present day. As do those listening to this story. Everyone still wants to know whether the King would have lit up his cigarette right there in the middle of the pristine ward. Since he sure as hell had no idea where he was, his mouth slightly open in stupour, icy blue eyes blinking rapidly.

What the King and his best friend were talking about is unknown, but people saw Dwalinson arriving and shaking the King by his shoulders. They proceeded to whisper in hushed feverish tones. Occasionally Thorington would raise his voice, but Dwalinson would press his scary arse hand, the size of a plate in an American diner, and would murmur something comforting to his friend.

Only one phrase was heard fully in this dialogue, and it was when in an unbecoming the King and the Sun of Contemporary Neurosurgery dramatic gesture Thorington would flail his hands, unofficially coined the treasure of the contemporary medical science, and scream, "But three, Dwalinson! Three boys! What am I going to do?!" Some say that after that he pressed his hands to his face, but that sounds absurd.

Dr. John Crispin Thorington would surely never lose his composure thusly!


End file.
